


too blind to see the damage he's done

by lanyon



Category: Kings
Genre: F/M, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-07 16:32:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You meet a boy. You’ve read this story before. It’s one of your sister’s favourites but there are no glass slippers or pumpkins or fairy godmothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	too blind to see the damage he's done

**Author's Note:**

> +For Ellie, who asked for something that wasn't this.  
> +Warning for corporal punishment of a child, low self-esteem and experimental prose.  
> +Title from Jeff Buckley's _Lover, You Should've Come Over_.

You are told, over and over, that you are a prince. You’re the son of the king, the elder child, and your father is victorious and he was crowned by butterflies. 

You think butterflies are pretty. You try to catch them with your chubby fingers but they always fly away, so very fast. Your sister tries too and she cries when she cannot catch them. 

 Your father says that butterflies are a gift from God. You know that God is generous; Reverend Samuels says so. You think that God should give your sister some butterflies too. 

 There’s a pattern on the armchairs in one of the great reception rooms. You don’t run with scissors because it’s dangerous. You walk sedately and you smile at the guards and you cut out all the butterflies from the upholstery and the curtains. You give them to Michelle and she laughs and her smile is your smile and that is what twins are. 

Your tears are her tears when your father is told and you are roundly thrashed. You weep and Michelle weeps and you say that it’s not fair and Reverend Samuels tells you about whipping boys and how it is better to accept God’s punishment like a man. Your father is not God. He is just Silas, anointed by butterflies.

You are seven years old. You are not a man. You are only a little boy. You are not sure that you are a good little boy because you think that you would prefer a whipping boy, all the same. 

You do not like pain but you learn to expect it.

-

Your sister is sick and your father tells you that it should have been you. If Michelle is your whipping boy, you want it undone. You take it back. 

You learn to pray but her prayers are better, your father says. Her promises are better, he says. What are your promises, Jack?

-

You clap your hands and trap a butterfly. Its wings are yellow powder and it stains your palms all day. You vomit into one of the large urns that stand either side of the dining room doors.

-

You clap your hands and David Shepherd is tall and broad and he struggles like a pinned butterfly. You see your father squirm, too, and you think you might like the boy.

You ask if he plays poker.

His expression is comical. 

That’s a no, then, you say. Shame, you say. 

-

You like boys. You learn this when you are eighteen and lately enrolled in military school. Showers are communal and everyone pretends not to look. One evening, when it is late and everyone else is in bed, you sneak out and the shower water runs lukewarm and it is not your hand around your dick as you are pinned against the slippery tiled wall. 

An older cadet tells you that your mouth was made to suck cock. He is not wrong but you are the son of a king who would be horrified if he knew that his son was made to kneel before anyone less than God. 

He tells you that you’re a manipulative little shit and you smile and tell him to take a knee and show you how it’s done. 

You learn that it must be kept secret and so you learn the art of blackmail and bribery and you learn how to sleep with girls and how to kiss them in public, and the front pages of the newspapers are filled with pictures of the playboy prince. 

Your father, you think, finally approves. Your mother purses her lips and wonders where those girls have been. Your sister wrinkles her nose and tells you that you’re disgusting. 

-

You meet a boy. You’ve read this story before. It’s one of your sister’s favourites but there are no glass slippers or pumpkins or fairy godmothers. 

There is Joseph, though, and you can pretend that this is normal; your candlelit dinners in his apartment, your knees brushing together beneath the rickety table and his flushed cheeks. This is normal. You push your chair back and stand up and you reach out your hand. Can I have this dance? Can I go to the ball? 

A few shuffling steps, a tipsy sort of waltz, and you both topple onto his bed and you kiss him, the way you kiss girls in public and your fingers curls around his wrists and you press him into the bed and you will never tell him that you love him because the clock always strikes midnight. 

 

-

When you are seventeen, you get drunk for the first time. You vomit into one of the large urns. It is an old friend. 

You are the son of a king and you don’t care much for butterflies. You honour your father and mother and you love your sister. 

You wipe your mouth and clap your hands. 

-

 

You see how David looks at your sister and how she looks at him and you are suddenly, resoundingly jealous; it reverberates through every part of you like an ill-chiming bell. You contemplate whether to sleep with him; whether the seduction would be worth his ruin and your sister’s heartbreak. 

You see that you are the ferryman with the corn, the hen and the fox. 

You see that you are the ferryman and there are coins for Joseph’s closed eyes. 

You see that you must become the fox. 

-

You are told your mouth was made to suck cock. 

You wipe your mouth and clap your hands. 

You salute sharply. 

You are Major Jonathan Benjamin. You are Prince Jack. You are the playboy prince. 

-

The joke is on you.


End file.
